


Speedy's Coffee

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Coffee Shops, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7129064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill had talked about the coffee shop, at length. Apparently it was staffed by some tall posh bloke who provided the rudest customer service in London but always made the perfect cup. Didn’t even let you order - just looked you up and down and announced how much you needed to pay.</p><p>AKA "AU in which Sherlock is a terrible barista but does fantastic coffee. And tea. And blow jobs. John approves."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on a coffeeshop AU kick lately. I'm slowly making my way through as many Sherlock fanfiction tropes as I can think of - I've done wingfic, D/s, omegaverse, 5+1, some 221Bs, teen!lock, strip club AU, and probably some other tropes I've forgotten. Still hadn't done a coffeeshop one, though, and I figured it was time to change that.

“Twenty-four hours of leave left, mate. You really going to spend half of it sleeping?”

John groaned, but there was really no point to arguing. Bill always got his way. “It’s almost midnight and I’m knackered,” he said. “Not sure I’ve got much more in me, to be honest.”

Bill threw a loose arm around John’s shoulder and pointed to a cross-street a few blocks ahead. “Speedy’s Coffee, there. I’ve told you about it. Here’s your chance.”

Bill had talked about the coffee shop, at length. Apparently it was staffed by some tall posh bloke who provided the rudest customer service in London but always made the perfect cup. Didn’t even let you order - just looked you up and down and announced how much you needed to pay. Bill had told the story at least a dozen times, whenever someone new moved into their unit - how he’d stumbled in one afternoon, terribly hungover and having just awoken at some woman’s house whom he’d never met before. How the posh bloke sized him up in one glance and then poured him the best damn quadruple-shot-espresso-with-caramel-and-extra-sugar he’d ever had. Sobered him up pretty much immediately. Enough for him to stumble outside, find the sign designating Baker Street, and call a buddy for a ride, anyway. John did have to admit he was curious. Four shots of caffeine sounded like a bit much, but hopefully the bloke (if it even was the same bloke, after all this time) would figure him for something a bit less over the top. Maybe.

The coffee shop window was a cheerful light on an otherwise darkened street, foot traffic having all but disappeared due to the hour and the vague threat of drizzle. Bill ushered John in and had to give him a little extra shove so John didn’t just stop in the doorway and stare.

Because the shop was . . . ridiculous, really. The tables on one side of the room were all made up with doilies and plastic floral centerpieces and the overwhelming sense of being back at John’s grandmother’s cluttered flat, afraid to move lest he knock over some painted figurine. The other side of the room was absolutely night and day different - even the walls were split, a soothing light blue on the grandmotherly side and a vivid dark wallpaper on the other. There were no dining tables on the wallpapered side, just some leather armchairs and a couch with low end tables beside it framing a fireplace in the middle of the wall. John got as far as mentally trying to catalogue the items on the mantel (a slipper, a candle snuffer, some sort of ornate clock, a rack of antique titration equipment, a human skull?) when Bill snapped his fingers in front of John’s face and jerked him back to the present.

“You weren’t kidding about being tired, mate,” Bill said with a grin. “How you think you’re going to keep up with all the bright young things you’ll be working with this time around is beyond me. You’re practically ancient.”

Okay, yes, it was John’s second tour and he was definitely a good sight older than most of the new blood, but he only had a year on Bill. A year in age and about a decade more maturity. John used some of that maturity to refrain from clobbering Bill in the back of the head for yet another age reference.

“You’ll be wanting coffee,” a voice from somewhere behind the counter announced. “Ugh.”

It seemed an odd comment from someone who worked at a coffee shop. John turned, curious, and caught his first glimpse of an absolutely gorgeous man. “Tall posh bloke” really had been a good description - he must have been a full head taller than John, and probably had an inch or two even on Bill. He was wearing a pressed dress shirt and trousers underneath the “Speedy’s Coffee” apron, and it looked really damn good on him. He gave Bill a bored glance, sighed, and turned to retrieve something from the cupboard behind him.

“On leave from the army,” the man intoned as he pulled out a cup and started filling it from assorted nozzles and carafes. Nothing was labeled, John noticed, but he seemed to know what everything was anyway. “Enjoying your last night on the town before being deployed. Or-” he paused and gave John another look “-re-deployed, as the case may be. Three pounds fifty for the blend, extra caffeine, agave extract, almond cream. I combine and grind my own beans so don’t bother asking where it’s from.”

Bill tossed a fiver down on the counter and grinned at John. “Told you.”

“You did.” John looked back up at the man - _Sherlock_ , his nametag proclaimed - and realized he’d subconsciously slid into parade rest. “Care to guess mine? Because I have no idea what I want.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I never _guess,_ I deduce. And you don’t even like coffee.”

Bill barked out a laugh at that, quickly stifled as he took his first sip of his drink. “Bloody hell, this is amazing. I think I may need a few minutes of alone time with this cup, seriously. Fuck.”

There was a slight crinkle at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes, even though his mouth didn’t move, and John got the impression Sherlock was maybe just a bit smug about Bill’s reaction. The way Bill was moaning and sighing, perhaps he had the right to be. John kept his head up and kept eye contact, even as Sherlock turned that laser-focused attention to him.

“Tea,” Sherlock said slowly, as if coming to a momentous decision. “Not a blend I keep here in the shop. For you, though . . .” He frowned, then nodded sharply. “I can make an exception. Shop’s closed, now - time to leave. Tell your friend goodbye.”

John looked around at the empty room. “But-”

“You can catch up to him later. He’s desperate to pull a sex partner tonight anyway.” Sherlock made a shooing motion at Bill. “You. Go. Try the pub two blocks west of here. Bartender’s name is Laura. She has long hair and large breasts and just broke up with her on-again-off-again boyfriend last night, which means she’s going to be eager to take home whoever’s willing to stick around until the end of her shift in a little less than an hour. She also has a military fetish. Talk up your previous tour, tell her I sent you, and don’t mention the boyfriend. She’ll ensure you’re suitably under-rested for your deployment tomorrow.”

Bill blinked twice, gaped, then recovered and practically _beamed_ at the man. “You, sir, are a god among men. John, enjoy your tea; I apparently have a sure thing to flirt with.”

John didn’t doubt for a minute that Sherlock’s information was accurate - big tits and long hair were definitely Bill’s type, so it went to reason that Sherlock’s assessment of the woman’s turn-ons was accurate as well. He barely even had time to call a parting “G’luck, mate!” before Bill was tossing back the rest of the coffee and practically sprinting out the door.

“That was, um.” John sucked in a deep breath. “That was amazing, actually. You know all that from personal experience?”

Sherlock grunted. “Not really my area. Come along. What’s your name, by the way?”

“John.”

“Excellent.” He offered a firm handshake over the counter. “Nice to meet you, John. I’m Sherlock, obviously, you must have noticed. Turn out the lights and lock the door, would you? I’m leaving everything else for Mrs. Hudson in the morning.” He tossed some of the assorted coffee-making equipment in the large sink behind him, ran some water over it, then waved John forward through the “STAFF ONLY” exit in the back of the room.

John followed - after doing what Sherlock had asked - but his head was spinning. “Sorry, who’s Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock waved vaguely at the flowers-and-doilies side of the room. “Landlady and co-owner. She decorates her side, I do mine. She takes the morning shifts and does the baking and I take the evening shifts and do the coffee and tea.”

“Ah.” John nodded as if he understood. “The skull on the mantel, then?”

“Friend.” Sherlock led the way up a narrow flight of stairs, pausing near the top. “Well, I say ‘friend’ . . .”

“Right. Okay.” John found himself being ushered into a cluttered sitting room which was every bit as oddly decorated as the coffee shop had been. No old-lady lace, here, but there was some sort of bovine skull with headphones on one wall and a mishmash of scribbled-on notebook paper tacked onto another. Everything smelled of coffee. And Sherlock had been correct - John didn’t like the taste of coffee, particularly, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the smell.

Sherlock continued right on through to the open kitchen, pausing to put a kettle of water on, then commenced digging through the overflowing cupboards. Most of which were entirely filled with coffee and tea, John realized.

“You do this often?” John’s face heated as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “I mean, take customers up to your flat? This is yours, right?”

“Of course it’s mine. Who else’s would it be?” Sherlock’s voice was muffled because his head was currently stuck in the refrigerator as he rummaged, but the _don’t question it_ came through loud and clear. “Ah! Here it is. Sit, sit - plaid chair behind you. I knew I had the Indonesian in here somewhere. And to answer your question, no. I can count on one hand the number of customers who’ve required something other than the blends I keep downstairs, and none of the others were interesting enough to catch my attention. Bisexual army medic, overqualified but too addicted to danger to settle into a surgery here in London? What’s not to appreciate?”

 _Shit._ John cleared his throat. “Not that I’m saying I think you’re wrong, but . . .”

Sherlock sighed loudly. “Do you really want me to explain my deduction? Or would you rather get to the sex and the tea? I thought I’d been rather obvious, but perhaps I should have been clearer.”

John’s brain more or less froze at the word _sex_ , the rest of Sherlock’s proclamation a bit fuzzy in comparison. He couldn’t see what Sherlock was doing in the kitchen, not from the chair Sherlock had directed him to, but there was a clattering of glassware and what was probably canisters of tea and then Sherlock was striding back out into the sitting room and unbuttoning his shirt as he did so.

“Don’t be _boring,_ John,” Sherlock groaned. “I did promise tea also. The best tea you’ve ever had, to be precise, and quite possibly the best you _will_ ever have unless we come to make this a regular arrangement once you get back. Do you require the use of condoms during reciprocal fellatio? I’m disease-free and the risk of transmission is very low between healthy partners, but I have some in my bedroom if you feel they’re necessary. Not flavored, though - they’d ruin your taste buds for the tea.”

John was still stuck on the sight of Sherlock’s pale chest as the man shucked the dress shirt that had fit him so amazingly well. It took an extraordinary act of will to tear his eyes away and actually use his mouth to form words. “Yes,” John stammered. “I mean, no, I don’t want condoms, and yes, the blow job thing sounds lovely. I’m just . . . I didn’t know you were thinking more than tea.”

“Oh, there’s _much_ more than tea,” Sherlock said in a voice so low and molten it made John’s toes curl. “Now are you going to get yourself out of those clothes, or do you need my help?”


	2. Chapter 2

John probably set some sort of speed record jumping to his feet and getting his shirt off. He would have stripped his whole kit right then and there, but in the time between pulling his vest over his head and his eyes being uncovered again Sherlock managed to get a hand down the front of his jeans and suddenly John’s fine motor skills were a lot less reliable than usual. The gorgeous git didn’t even have to _do_ anything - he just loomed there, looking down at John with a predatory gleam in his eye, and palmed John’s cock through the fabric of his pants where it was rapidly beginning to take an interest in the proceedings. _Long_ , elegant fingers. _Fuck._ John untangled his arms from his vest and tossed it blindly aside, then insinuated his own hands (not as large but hopefully just as talented _thankyouverymuch_ ) along either side of Sherlock’s ribcage under his unbuttoned dress shirt.

“Mmm, very promising,” Sherlock murmured. “Think you can manage parade rest with my mouth around your cock? I would draw this out but I don’t particularly want to wait. The kettle’s on.”

“Christ.” Some part of John did want to take his time, to taste those stark collarbones and dusky pink nipples and trace his tongue along every one of the intercostal divots between Sherlock’s ribs, but Sherlock’s fingers were slowly and gently massaging his bollocks and given the circumstances, _right the fuck now_ seemed like as good a suggestion as any. Parade rest meant he wouldn’t be able to tangle his fingers in those gorgeous curls, but that probably just meant Sherlock didn’t like to be choked. Or he had a military fetish. Given the circumstances, it didn’t bloody matter. John folded his hands behind him at the small of his back, palms out, and tried to relax.

There was nothing relaxing about the way Sherlock dropped to his knees, though. Or the way he grinned wickedly before leaning forward to nuzzle at John’s hard-on. John hauled in a deep breath and tried not to let his knees buckle before Sherlock even made skin-to-skin contact.

“You’re an intriguing man, John,” Sherlock announced in between barely-there licks to the damp cotton of John’s pants. “You like a bit of danger, don’t you? A little-” - he tilted his head sideways and grazed his top and bottom teeth in twin lines up the underside of John’s cock - “-bit of excitement to counteract the unfathomable _boredom_ of life with normal people?” One more lick, then he sat back on his heels and reached for the open waistband of John’s jeans. “That’s not a guess, you know,” he added. “So please spare me the aspersion on my observational skills.”

“Wasn’t going to,” John said, gritting his teeth against the urge to give in and just yank his pants down himself. “Your ‘not-guesses’ have been bloody brilliant so far.”

Sherlock frowned. “That’s not what people usually say.”

It’s not that John didn’t agree - _people are usually idiots_ \- but this was rather not the time. “You always this chatty while you’ve got your saliva seeping through another bloke’s pants onto his aching dick?”

Sherlock gaped at him for a moment, then shut his jaw with a snap. “Right,” he said. “I suppose we should just get to it, then.”

“Well obviously we don’t have to, if you’ve changed your mi- _oh!_ ”

It soon became very clear that Sherlock had not, in fact, changed his mind. Not in the least. No sooner did he have John’s cock pulled out through the slit in his pants did he impale himself on it all the way down to John’s bollocks. The shock of _warmwetperfect_ was enough to have John arching his back and panting even before Sherlock drew back to take his first breath.

“Okay?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

_“Fuck.”_

Sherlock’s smirk was interrupted by him swallowing down John’s erection a second time. He played a bit more, wriggling his tongue along John’s slit and sucking gently, then leaning forward so far his nose was basically buried in John’s pants and John could feel the tight ring of constriction where the head of his cock was bumping into the back of Sherlock’s throat. John’s palms itched with the need to thread his fingers through those bobbing black curls, but he resisted. If Sherlock wanted parade rest, he’d get it. Even if it was damn near impossible to hold back. Nobody ever said Captain Watson lacked self-control.

 _Like hell._ It was a nice thought, but “Captain Watson” had never been up against someone like Sherlock. John managed to keep his resolve until Sherlock got serious . . . and then it was over almost embarrassingly quickly. A precise suck, a long finger just _there_ against John’s perineum, and a flick of Sherlock’s tongue were all it took to leave John blustering “Sher-gonna-gonna- _oh fuck!_ ” and coming into that sweet mouth. Sherlock sat back on his heels, licking his lips and grinning, just as the kettle whistled.

“Excellent.” His voice came out lower than it had been before, a touch husky, and _damn_ wasn’t that sexy. Even given how John was still faint-headed from his orgasm. “One second while I put the tea in to steep and then we can try that again with our positions reversed.”

John flopped backward into the chair and took a moment to catch his breath. The blowjob had been, without a doubt, the single most surreal sexual experience of his life. And all in the time it took water to boil. _Fuck._

Sherlock puttered in the kitchen for several minutes, which was long enough for John to regain control of his limbs and for his heart rate to return to something approximating normal. He was no stranger to blowjobs - receiving _or_ giving - but reciprocating something like the one he’d just survived was a daunting task. Not an onerous one, granted, but daunting. If that’s what the sex was like, Sherlock’s tea would probably kill him.

“There.” Sherlock came back from the kitchen, fumbling with his left shirt cuff. He was still in his pressed black trousers, but to the discerning eye (and John’s was _extremely_ discerning) the bulge of his partially-erect cock was clearly visible. John stood and crossed over to him before he could shuck the shirt entirely.

“Leave it on.” John leaned in, let himself explore Sherlock’s bared chest with his mouth. “I like you like this. I’ve always been a sucker for a gorgeous bloke only halfway out of formalwear.”

“It’s not formalwear,” Sherlock retorted, but his voice was a bit shaky. “I always dress like this.”

“Mmmm, even better.” John inhaled deeply at Sherlock’s collarbone, taking in the scent of tea and coffee and a long day behind the counter, then started moving his way downwards. “Put your hands wherever you want,” he added, “as long as you're not choking me. Come on - over this way.”

Sherlock was willing to be guided over to the largish area rug in front of the fireplace. John may have never had an evening quite like this one, but he knew damn well that sucking another man off - especially after having already come his brains out - was significantly more pleasant when his knees weren’t aching from a hard floor. He settled onto his heels and considered Sherlock’s erection.

The implied challenge to this was a nice touch, honestly. Tit for tat. “Tea is steeping?” he asked. “I didn’t hear a timer.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I usually time it in my head,” he admitted.

“Ah.” _In that case . . ._ “Let me know when you need me to stop, then.”

He didn’t bother to wait for an answer, just planted his palms on the backs of Sherlock’s lean thighs and leaned in for a thoroughly dirty kiss over Sherlock’s navel. There was a hiss above him, a sharp intake of breath which made Sherlock’s abdomen jump, then Sherlock let out a just-as-dirty groan and oh, it was _on._

John pulled Sherlock’s cock out of his silky boxers with only his tongue - a nice skill, if a bit useless in most other circumstances. Sherlock seemed to appreciate it, though. There was so much to taste, so many things to try . . . John shoved Sherlock’s trousers and pants down to his knees, then returned his hands to the man’s glorious arse while he explored just what Sherlock’s voice sounded like while incapable of actual sentences.

It didn’t take long at all to find that Sherlock was delightfully responsive. John got his first taste of precome almost immediately, and it seemed like every new touch or taste brought another hint of that musky flavor. He was nowhere near as adept as Sherlock was at deep-throating, unfortunately, but what John lacked in depth he more than made up for in technique. He had Sherlock whining and panting in absolutely no time at all. 

The third time Sherlock made an aborted motion to reach for John’s head and then pulled his hand away, John grabbed it and placed it firmly over his occipital lobe. Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s military-short hair and offered a tiny bit of hesitant pressure.

“Do it,” John said, pulling off just long enough to speak. “Guide me where you want me. I’ll breathe when I need to.”

 _“John.”_ Sherlock tightened his grip, cupping the back of John’s skull but not trying to choke him on the cock currently just breaching his lips. “More - the suction-”

John _hmm_ ed in acknowledgement and sucked harder at just the head. He ran the flat of his tongue over Sherlock’s slit over and over, drawing a fresh hint of flavor with each pass, until Sherlock’s hips were twitching forward and his fingers were spasming with each lick and stroke. It only spurred John on to intensify his efforts, interspersing the suction with occasional deep dives down to wet the rest of Sherlock’s cock and draw those delightful groans from the man’s throat.

Sherlock did make a cursory effort to push John away before his orgasm hit him, but John chose to sit back with his mouth open instead so he could see the look on Sherlock’s face as he came. The man was bloody _gorgeous._ Even more so with his eyes screwed shut, mouth slack in pleasure, and that damned formal shirt still hanging open and framing his quivering chest. The first spurt of come hit John square in the chin, an uncomfortably wet sensation he was never going to quite get used to, but the second striped beautifully across his tongue and the rest were more noticeable for their duration than for their distance. Sherlock let out a long, shuddering groan, then collapsed into a gangly pile of limbs on the rug next to John.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “You, John, are absolutely worth a cup of my secret Indonesian blend. As many cups as you want.”

“Oh, that much?” John raised an eyebrow, trying his best to feel offended, but he just couldn’t. The blissfully shagged-out man flopping listlessly on the floor beside him pretty much balanced out the not-quite-a-compliment. Kind-of compliment. Whatever. He bent a leg so he could wipe his damp face on the knee of his jeans, and that helped too. “Ta, but you still owe me the first cup. I may not even like it.”

Sherlock glared at him reproachfully. It was an impressive feat, considering how he only opened one eye to do it while the rest of him was still practically boneless. “You will,” he declared.

“I guess I’ll find out when it’s done steeping.”

Sherlock sucked in a quick breath, then was back on his feet a moment later. “Shit,” he growled, and dashed into the kitchen.

***

The tea was, not entirely to John’s surprise, the second-best thing he’d ever put in his mouth. Sherlock did eventually set a timer for 6:30 AM, the time John had to be up and functional in the morning, but they didn’t need it. Neither of them got much sleep.

John did, however, get a cell number (“I prefer to text”) and an email address and a small tin of mostly-Indonesian tea to take with him when he deployed. Sherlock got a deliciously sore arse and a promise to keep in touch as often as possible. They both added John’s next home leave to their respective calendars.

And forever after that, every time Bill mentioned the magic that was Speedy’s Coffee, John backed him up one hundred percent.


End file.
